


Over the Rainbow

by ladyblahblah



Category: Captain America (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's culture shock of the worst kind, made truly unbearable by the fact that there can be no escape back to the familiar comforts of home. Home is dead and gone a generation ago and more; the present is all he has left.</i>  A Steve Rogers character study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over the Rainbow

**Author's Note:**

> Guys, I don't even know what happened.  I went to see _The Avengers_ , and I left the theater with all of these Steve!feels, and then I started thinking about how thrilled he was to get that Wizard of Oz reference, and then this just sort of came out. I HAVE A LOT OF STEVE FEELS, HERE HAVE SOME OF THEM.

 

 

 

  
They give him his own apartment right away, which quite frankly turns out to be a disaster.

New York has changed so much he hardly even recognizes it; just stepping outside makes him feel as if he's wandered into one of Howard's _World of Tomorrow_ expos. In a way, he supposes he has. Stark Tower rises like a monolith in the skyline, first among the giants stretching into the blue, and Steve feels suddenly small and insignificant in its shadow. The rest of the city is no comfort, either; everything is too big, too loud, too  strange. A simple trip to the corner store sets him adrift amongst a sea of unfamiliar sights and sounds. He finds himself standing in the middle of the produce aisle, watching in a mixture of fascination and despair as people around him wander casually among piles of fruits and vegetables he'd never even known to exist.

It's culture shock of the worst kind, made truly unbearable by the fact that there can be no escape back to the familiar comforts of home. Home is dead and gone a generation ago and more; the present is all he has left.

He doesn't leave the apartment again for weeks. It's difficult to say how long he would have stayed there if left to his own devices, but after twenty-three days Director Fury appears at his door, asking if he'd consider a temporary relocation to the S.H.I.E.L.D. campus. They can be sure he actually shows up for the meetings they schedule that way; there's a lot he still has to learn about modern life.

"You're my commanding officer,” Steve points out, ashamed of the belligerence he can hear in his own voice but unable to check it. “Why not just order me to go? Wouldn't that be easier all around?”

He knows what Fury's answer will be, but he waits to hear it anyway.

"It's my job to make do what's best for you; I'm not terribly concerned with making things easy.”

No, Steve thinks as he leaves the room to pack up. People never are.

It _is_ easier at headquarters, though. And harder. There's no chaotic swirl of activity just outside his door—activity that he might find fascinating under normal circumstances, whatever the heck those might be. He's shielded there, if you'll pardon the pun, from the outside world. Everything is conducted with a military orderliness that he finds comfortably familiar; living at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters feels just like prepping for a mission at any other military base. And there's no question in his mind that prepping him for a mission is exactly what they're doing here.

Which is where the harder part comes in.

The first thing he's scheduled for is a weapons briefing, something that speaks volumes as to what he figures they're planning for him. He doesn't object; he's a soldier, after all. But the weapons they show him are terrifyingly sleek and slick and _modern._ They unsettle him in ways that guns never have, the way that nothing but Schmidt's Hydra weapons have ever done, and the first time realizes that they have _Stark_ stamped on the side it sends a cold chill down his spine.

Stark Industries stopped making weapons about three years ago, sir,” the agent briefing him that day tells him when he mentions it. She's young. Well no, not really; not more than a year or two younger than him, he'd guess, if you don't count the time he spent on ice. She _seems_ young to him, though. All of the agents here seem so very young. “These are still the best, though. The rest of the military's moved on to other contractors, but S.H.I.E.L.D. will be using Stark weapons until the last ones fall apart, I can guarantee you that.”

Howard's dead, of course; he died while Steve was sleeping, like so many of their friends, and his son runs the company now. That particular piece of information comes out over lunch in the canteen, and Steve doesn't miss the looks that pass between several of the agents, or the fact that when his name comes up everyone suddenly seems to have other places to be. He thinks about following up, but in this sea of bright-eyed, poker-faced strangers he can't get his bearings. There are no file rooms he can visit, no documents he can study; everything is locked up in computers, which still seem too much like science fiction come to life for Steve to uncover whatever secrets they might hold. That line of thinking is unnerving, in any case. It makes him feel like a spy, and he's never been particularly comfortable with the idea of espionage. Covert ops have never been his strong suit.

It turns out to be a moot point, in any case, when he's summoned to a briefing room the next day and finds Agent Maria Hill waiting there for him.

He's interacted with Agent Hill a handful of times before; she was part of the team responsible for his initial debriefing after they'd coaxed him out of the street and back to headquarters. Though Steve likes her well enough, he's never exactly comfortable around her. In addition to being a beautiful woman—which would have him tongue-tied all on its own—she's always managed to give him the impression that she could break him in half over one knee, super-serum be damned. That she'd do it, too, if those were her orders, has never been a question in his mind.

"I understand you've been asking about Tony Stark,” she says without preamble, and Steve feels his stance falter just a bit before he checks himself.

"Is that a problem?”

"On the contrary; I'd say it's actually rather convenient.” She nods at one of the chairs circling the table. “Have a seat.”

"Is this about Stark Industries?” Steve asks as he sits, warily eyeing the thin folder and legal pad that Agent Hill sets in front of him. “Their weapons manufacturing?”

"No. And yes. More 'no' than 'yes'.” A look of frustration briefly crosses her face. “Possibly more 'yes' than 'no'. It all sort of depends on how you look at it.” She sighs and leans a hip against the edge of the table; it's the most relaxed he's ever seen her. “It's complicated,” she says at last.

"Complicated. Right.” He's staring up at her, trying to keep his irritation out of his tone. “Seems like everything these days is complicated in one way or another.”

"I imagine that's one thing that's stayed the same over the years,” she answers, and Steve nods in reluctant acknowledgement. She's staring straight back at him, her expression serious and almost hesitant. “The world _has_ changed quite a bit in other respects, though.”

"I know. I've been paying attention in history class.”

He hates getting defensive, but it seems to be happening nearly all the time lately. Hardly Agent Hill's fault he was asleep for seventy years, he reminds himself; it's not fair to take his frustrations out on her. Steve sighs.

  
"I always figured . . .” He hesitates, unsure how to word his thoughts. “Whenever my buddies and I went to the Stark Expos, we'd talk about how the future was going to be such an amazing place. But living in it now . . . well, sometimes it seems more than amazing. Sometimes it seems like I woke up on a whole other world.”

He doesn't say the rest of it, can't bring himself to voice the doubts and concerns that have been germinating in his mind as he's learned more about the state of the country, about wars that aren't wars and a world that seems to run on hate. To say them aloud feels like treason. Like blasphemy. But from Agent Hill's face, he suspects that she knows in any case—she's eyeing him now like she's sizing up a potential threat, and though he doesn't like the implication, he stares back, unblinking.

He's never liked bullies; he doesn't care where they're from.

"You're not entirely wrong,” is all she says, however, and she moves to the small device that he still can't believe is a computer. _A laptop_ , one of the agents had told him, and Steve had simply nodded, unquestioning. He's been doing a lot of that, lately. “In many ways, this _isn't_ the same world you left behind when you crashed Schmidt's ship,” Agent Hill is adding. “You've seen some of that already, I think.” She stops tapping buttons for a moment to cast a raised eyebrow in his direction. “I've heard you're a fan of _The Daily Bugle_.”

Steve sits up a little straighter. “You're talking about . . . what do they call him? Spider-Man. I thought he wasn't associated with any official government agencies.”

"He's not. He refers to himself as a 'freelancer'. We call him a vigilante.” Agent Hill taps one final sequence into the computer. “And it's not just him. There are a few more you might want to know about.”

As understatements go, Steve decides, it's a fairly massive one. The screen running the length of the wall in front of him springs to life with image after image, clip after clip, until he can hardly keep track of it all. Men and women with remarkable power, and the chaos that follows in their wake. Some of the footage was taken by civilians—the especially shaky video was almost always filmed with someone's phone, Agent Hill says offhand, as though that technology isn't anything like the miracle it seems to Steve. There are still shots too bleak and composed to be anything other than official documentation; footage spliced together from a half-dozen different news programs; more than a few bits that Steve suspects are the work of professional surveillance operatives. It's too much to take in all at once, but he finds that some of the images linger in his mind long after lights out that night.  


_A passenger train is torn apart by nothing more than the raised hand of a smirking older man._  
  
 _A battle in the New York subway rages between what appears to be a person made entirely of sand and a quick, slim figure decked out in familiar blue and red._  
  
 _One large, lion-like man squares off against a team in uniform whose powers are more varied than any Steve might have been able to imagine._  
  
 _A brash, sharp-tongued man fighting in a suit of metal armor._  
  
The world has filled itself with heroes while he slept, and villains have kept apace.  
  
Next to all of them, Steve feels something that's not quite ordinary. It nags at him there in the dark, and when the word finally hits him he wonders why it's a surprise.  
  
 _Obsolete_.  
  
Agent Hill issues him something that feels like still more science fiction: a computer as thin and light as a grade-school primer. Agent Cooper, who is assigned to help him learn to use it, calls it a tablet, which conjures up uneasy thoughts of commandments and false idols Still, Steve appreciates how she sits with him patiently, explaining its mysteries step-by-step until he can manage at least a rudimentary level of competence. She smiles widely when he successfully calls up the file he'd been looking for, and it makes Steve inexplicably sad.  
  
"You're really doing very well,” she says encouragingly as they approach the canteen for a much-needed coffee break.  
  
"Thanks.” Steve looks at the device in his hands with something other than barely-checked disgust for the first time all day. “It's a brave new world, I guess.”  
  
"Dipping a toe into the twenty-first century, huh?” The agent ahead of them is Tom Harding; he's been part of Steve's briefings before. He's even younger than most, and he has a new wife and a chipped front tooth. The latter is on display as he claps Steve on the shoulder. “The sooner you learn, the better. You're not in Kansas anymore, Cap.”  
  
Steve frowns, and turns to Agent Cooper to ask quietly, “He knows I'm from Brooklyn, doesn't he?”  
  
She laughs a little. “Of course he does; that was just a . . .” Her eyes widen slightly. “Have you never seen . . . but I would've _sworn_ it was made before . . .” she mutters, pulling out her own computer, even smaller than his, her fingers flying over the screen in a way that makes Steve all too aware of his own clumsy fumblings. “1939, I _thought_ so.” She lifts confused eyes to his again. “Haven't you ever seen _The Wizard of Oz_?”  
  
"Oh!” Steve grins, relieved all out of proportion to have finally found a subject he's familiar with. “Sure, yeah! Years ago.” He laughs, a little awkwardly. “Obviously. That's a line from the movie, right?”  
  
"It's . . . yes. Sort of a famous line, actually.”  
  
"I see.” He considers for a moment. “I guess I'm surprised theaters are still playing it. Aren't there any new movies these days?”  
  
Agent Cooper's lips twitch just a bit as tucks away her computer to add sugar to her coffee. “Lots of them. But that one's a classic. Most people haven't ever seen it in the theater, though, just on TV or on video.”  
  
"Oh.” Steve frowns again, following her down the line.  
  
"Problem?”  
  
"No. No, not a problem. It's . . . well, you can watch movies right in your own home. It's amazing. But I don't know; I think I'd miss the smell of the popcorn, and the size of the screen. Watching something you enjoy with a room full of strangers who like it as much as you do. These days, everything seems so private and disconnected; watching a movie alone in your own home just seems like a damned shame.” He flushes. “Beg your pardon.”  
  
Her lips twitch again, nodding her acceptance of his apology. “You must've really loved going to the movies.”  
  
"I did.” Steve hands over the money for his coffee and thanks the woman running the till. “Haven't been to one in . . .” He laughs again. “A while.”  
  
"No; I'd imagine you haven't.” Agent Cooper pays as well, and her face falls back into the neutral expression he suspects S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives are taught immediately after recruitment. She pulls out her computer again, her fingers tapping briefly over the screen before she offers him a small smile. “Well. If it's all right with you, Captain Rogers, we can take our coffee back to the briefing room, and I'll start trying to explain the Internet to you. I think you'll like it.”  
  
Steve just sighs. “Lead the way, Agent.”  
  
By that evening, Steve can use his tablet with approximately eighty-six percent success, which he can't help but feel isn't bad for a nonagenarian. He spends most of the next day investigating the names he jotted down during Agent Hill's briefing; files, he discovers, have been pre-loaded onto the computer for his perusal. He can't decide if that's convenient or disturbing, but he thinks it's probably both. In any case, he's able to learn quite a bit in only a few hours. He'd still prefer the solidity of actual paper records and files, but he has to admit that there's something to be said for the speed that a computer provides.  
  
He's reviewing the compiled footage of the team that calls itself the X-Men when there's a knock at his door.  
  
"Good evening, Captain.” The agent at the door is one he doesn't recognize, though he's not sure if it's because they've never met, or because all of those neutral faces have begun to blend together. “You're needed in Auditorium A.”  
  
Steve nods, taking just a moment to shut off and stow his computer. For a moment he considers asking who needs him and why, but in the end it doesn't really matter; it's not as though he has anything better to do.  
  
What he finds is not at all what he'd expected.  
  
The smell of popcorn hits him long before they reach the auditorium. It's a smell that takes him back, and for a moment he's lost in memories of a dim alley, of butter-slick fingers gripping tight to a trash can lid, of heavy fists and a bruised stomach. Memories of his friend, tall and proud in his brand new uniform, an exasperated but fond smile on his face.  
  
When the doors open, it's into a room louder and more boisterous than he's seen in all his weeks at this campus. Agents are milling about, lounging in seats, munching on popcorn as they talk and laugh with each other. Steve assumes they're agents, anyway; he's ashamed to realize that without the uniforms and carefully controlled expressions, he hardly recognizes anyone here.  
  
Someone presses a bucket of popcorn into his hands, leading him through a sea of smiling faces and good-natured salutes. There's a seat reserved for him, third row center, and as he sits he sees Agent Cooper make her way to the front of the room.  
  
"Attention!” she yells; Steve is surprised and impressed when the room goes immediately quiet. “The screening will start in just a moment,” Agent Cooper continues over the sound of people taking their seats. “But first, I'd like to take a moment for tonight's guest of honor. He's a man who sacrificed everything without a second thought. For our parents and our grandparents; for all of us. Captain Steve Rogers, it's been an honor to meet you. This is our small way of saying thanks.”  
  
Applause breaks out around him, and Steve is incredibly thankful that the lights begin to dim almost immediately. He can feel himself flushing even as he grins, and as the title sequence begins to roll he can't help but laugh. It's a strange way to bridge a stranger generation gap, when a movie he saw at its release is one that people born two generations later remember better than he does. _A classic_ , Agent Cooper called it. There's something comforting about that.  
  
Which makes it all the more unexpected when, alone in the dark of his room that night, he stares up at the ceiling and only feels an impossible, unbearable longing.  
  
He can carve out a place for himself in this time, this place; that much is clear. But the thought alone is exhausting when all he wants is to go home. He feels like a child again, wishing that, but the ache in his chest is too strong to fight.  
  
It's fantastical and wonderful, this place he's woken into, but it's not his; he doesn't fit in this world of everyday miracles. He can live in it, but he'll never truly belong, and he wishes . . . but wishes don't come true.  
  
Still, he'd give anything in the world if he could close his eyes and wake to find Bucky and Peggy and Colonel Phillips waiting for him, welcoming him back to the world he never meant to leave behind.  
  
 _There's no place like home_.  
  
Not anymore, at least.

  
  



End file.
